


Paper Scars

by jusrecht



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2073408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They won against Byakuran. This was the price they paid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Scars

Tsuna remembered the moment he grew up. Blood scribed deeply into the pages of his mind and this one deeper than any other, an ink unwashed by time. He remembered the red trail down the length of his arm, his gloves damp and heavy with debt and payment both. The smell of it. The feel of it.

Above all, Tsuna still remembered the rush of anguish, broken sounds repeatedly torn from his throat when he knew that he had been too late.

At fourteen, the rest of his life’s path had been decided.

–

**a place where the wild roses grow**

That Sawada sought him first was a decision which might surprise many, but not Hibari Kyouya. Free of expectations, he measured the young man who had come to him as a guest uninvited: twenty-one years of age and hardly a day of difference in appearance save in height, his mind still proved a prey of indecision like any other. The delay had been long enough, days piled upon months and years of deliberation but very little action.

But today he requested to see him, awkwardly dressed in suit and tie, and asked in a steady, clear voice, what the price would be.

Seven years between now and then, neither was Hibari Kyouya the boy he once had been. That Sawada made no stuttering effort to provide a lengthy explanation implied that he knew that _he knew._ Even ghosts left marks, let alone a living man with lofty designs and far-fetched plans, no matter how guarded his steps were. Hibari did not smile, but he looked away from the sun-stained horizon and regarded his guest, face expressionless.

“Stay away from Namimori.”

His words were no less clear despite the waning light and Sawada was silent for a long moment, eyes cast down, hands curled loosely on his lap. Unhurried, Hibari allowed him the moment and closed his eyes, much too familiar with silence to find any discomfort in a long pause. The fragrance of tea spun about the room, a deceptively calming scent as evening slowly stripped both house and garden of colours. Tetsu’s faithful presence was kneeling outside, waiting for orders.

“What does it entail exactly?” Sawada suddenly asked.

“Build your power elsewhere, fight your battles elsewhere,” Hibari retorted, impatience slowly building at the evasive dance the Vongola Tenth insisted on. Both of them knew very well that lacking Hibari’s help, it was nigh impossible to have his wish fulfilled within a reasonable timeframe. More time meant greater risk of exposure, of others finding out before they were supposed to—which might put the entire scenario at risk if left unheeded

With no other choice in hand, it was hardly a matter of winning or losing when Sawada finally sought his gaze again and said, “I accept the term, Hibari-san.”

Hibari’s only acknowledgment was a small nod, and the deal was sealed.

 

–

 

**this year without summer**

The 31st dawned much the same as the day before, grey and fresh from the cradle of stars and lingering mist. What marked their difference emerged as soon as the sun had set and gates were flung open for the arrival of guests. Another year approached, their third in Italy, but the greatest difference lay not in the new year itself, but at the party where Sawada Tsunayoshi came down to one knee in front of his Family and friends, and proposed to the woman he loved.

Gokudera had put down his nagging discomfort at the scene as natural jealousy, and thought of it no more.

Three days after the night of merriment and drunken celebrations, the Tenth summoned him to a private meeting, his voice betraying nothing over the phone. Only once they were alone in the closed safety of his office that the Tenth announced: the ceremony would not take place in Palermo, but Namimori.

Still, wedding particulars were not why a Guardian was summoned and Gokudera waited until he spoke again. “There is something else I need to tell you. Something that I should have told you a long time ago.” The Tenth was looking directly into his eyes, on his lips a familiar quirk which lingered somewhere between apologetic and melancholy. “But for the sake of the Family, I must be careful.”

Gokudera returned it with a nod and a smile, earnest if not quite with the same ease displayed by his younger self. The windows in the room faced west, and the light that fell upon Tsuna’s frame was of iron gone to rust; for reasons he would rather not confront, Gokudera thought it oddly suitable—this colour of vengeance.

“I understand, Tenth.” And he did. Across the years, he had taken painstaking care not to breach the line of personal judgments, and not to question any decision made by the Tenth unless it could be harmful to the Family. As confident as he might have appeared before public’s eyes, that place was yet to be his, not until Tsuna told him so.

And as the sun glided lower still, tell him he did, in a soft, level voice as if reading a bedtime story. First was of reasons, second the plan bred in the murky shade of the night, under so many noses but very few knowing eyes, and on its coattail finally the measure of trust and expectation set upon his shoulders.

Gokudera did not speak for a long time, for even his daring and the complex working of his mind stood useless before the daring offer.

 

–

 

**blackbird on a grey sky**

The small body writhed, and then stilled.

Shouichi flinched and bit his lips, eyes darting toward the notepad gripped by white fingers, skimming past the name he had jotted down despite his better judgment. But his calculations were all correct, the degree of each light’s transmission precise, each wave length measured; it should not have been painful at all. The murder committed in his laboratory was not of cells but their functions, the temporary disabling of muscles and motoric purposes.

Beyond the thick, protective glass, the baby lay unmoving.

But Tsuna was kind to him, his reasoning wise and factual if not exactly moral. The friendship offered to him all of a sudden nine years ago had been a cornerstone of his existence for exactly that length of time. There was nothing Shouichi wanted more than to help him build a better world, away from the demons of the future. His own nightmare came from mirrors, not so much the bruises under his eyes as the growing unfamiliarity of the face staring back at him. (He used to be a boy afraid to hurt even a queue of ants; now old tenets battered at his skull unheeded, and _Skull_ was still not a name easy to forget.)

At least, Shouichi reflected bitterly, fingers shaking as he stroked key after key, the helm helped.

 

–

 

**dyes and flowers**

Lambo remembered the event mostly in splashes of colours. At fourteen, there were other things vying for his attention, but he noticed the flowers in I-Pin’s hair, red matching her green kimono. Next to her, Bianchi was clapping and laughing, her dress shimmering yellow bright.

These memories came and went in flashes, like lightning. Sometimes he didn’t even remember what Tsuna looked like, dressed in solemn black, the shade fitting for both wedding and funeral. And then there was the bride, a burst of white amidst lesser colours, her shyly smiling face thickly painted under the cumbersome headdress. Only her dark hair and eyes, and the red slash of her lips, lent a different sort of temperament to her demure appearance.

But the one thing Lambo would never forget was the sheen in I-Pin’s eyes, tears unshed at the sight, and her fingers clasped tightly around his wrist.

 

–

 

**behind a mask of dried fears**

He stumbled upon the folder by chance.

Maybe not; there was no such thing as ‘by chance’ where Gokudera was concerned and Yamamoto knew this well enough to suspect the obvious method at once. Of all articles and neatly stacked documents on Gokudera’s desk, only this sat askew on the top of the highest pile, opened, papers untidily and deliberately so arranged the touch was almost artistic. The topmost sheet—with a picture on the top left corner, those peculiar eyebrows and a merciless set of lips—locked his remaining air in his throat.

_Status: Deceased_

The scar on his chest still throbbed at the memory of a battle twice fought, neither disappointment nor triumph, only a reminder of constant vigilance. Their paths had yet to cross in _this_ world, the man not present among Giglio Nero ranks, but Yamamoto remembered, and so continued to leaf through the papers, glancing at familiar faces that churned his stomach whereas spilled blood and severed limbs no longer did so. At the bottom of every page, the rings were exactly as he remembered; spread wings of silver gleam and white jewels holding too great power within.

_Status: Deceased_

_Status: Deceased_

_Status: Alive_

_Status: Deceased_

Gokudera was standing in the doorway when he turned around, and Yamamoto thought he understood now, why the Storm Guardian had been looking the way he had for the past few months. Silence often proved the heaviest burden, a gag not only around unwilling mouth.

“The Tenth wants to see you.”

And much like a storm, Gokudera could not free his voice entirely of emotions. Yamamoto returned the gaze unflinching, in his hand the picture of a white-haired man who had lurked in his dreams night upon night, the reason why he still lived close to his father now, keeping always an eye open.

_Status: Deceased_

“How long has it been?”

Gokudera turned around without responding; it was his silence which snapped back, _you damn know very well how long._

 

–

 

**the seer’s tower**

“Of all the things I expected you to do.”

Chrome listened from behind the shroud of stillness. Mukuro-sama’s illusion was a warm mantle which reduced her to the corner of her mind, a mute but willing spectator. She would have stolen a glance at the mirror, but she saw what he saw, whom he saw, and all he saw right now was the Vongola Tenth, face hooded by darkness.

Tsuna shut the door and stepped into his office, regarding his Mist Guardian from the corner of his eyes. “It is necessary,” he said softly. “I must protect my Family.”

Her chest smarted at the answer and Mukuro-sama spoke again, his tone stealing into a darker, mocking pitch. “Of course.”

A long pause stretched between them, ignored on both ends. Its swell was slow and steady, the painful carcinoma from a wound untended, until Tsuna bravely picked up the thread left hanging. “I didn’t mean to keep it secret from the rest of you.”

“Naturally. Like you didn’t mean what you did to the Cloud Arcobaleno.”

Tsuna did not answer. Chrome could feel Mukuro-sama smiling, not a pleasant smile, and then opened her eyes to the cool whisper of air.

“Boss,” she inclined her head; the twinge of heartaches she could not feel anymore, soothed by falsehood and intangible bandages.

 

–

 

**moon occults the sun**

_Brother,_ Tsuna still called him that, perhaps out of sentimentality, the ghost of a memory; this time it was a mark of betrayal.

Anger and disappointment were close kindred and Ryouhei could no longer differentiate one from another. Lambo stood at his left with his head bowed in silence, the only one other than him who did _not_ know. Gokudera knew. Yamamoto knew, had known undoubtedly since their encounter in Venice and the finding of a little girl with long green hair, one clean stab in her chest. Hibari was nowhere to be seen, but his bloody trail was clear enough to interpret, and Mukuro was the ever knowing mist.

But Tsuna stood there and called him ‘brother’, and Ryouhei very nearly lunged at him. He sought release in the carelessness of words, unreserved now that he perceived: what remained that had once bound him so closely to the younger man was no more than ghosts and impostors, obligation masquerading as loyalty, debt as lingering affection. He remembered still with the pain of salt upon wound, the breaking of his family after everything had gone wrong and the truth he could not tell his parents about their loss. Fraying images of the past.

It was Gokudera who shouted back at him, always quick to defend his boss. Only Tsuna’s hand on his shoulder prevented him from an outright lash at what in his opinion amounted to a rebellion.

“I failed once,” Tsuna chose to reason instead of taking offence. “I cannot afford to fail again.”

Ryouhei thought of his sister, bright and lovely in her school uniform, her body embraced by laughter—and his bandaged fists found their match in the rigid wall.

 

–

 

**a path beyond the grave**

When it finally happened, Reborn did stop to wonder why he had never attempted flight when there had still been chance within his grasp. He was smart enough, brave enough—or used to be.

“You taught me to be strong,” was Tsuna’s only explanation before the strange machinery, the smile on his lips a spectre of what once was.

“I didn’t teach you madness.”

But madness was learned, not taught. Madness, Reborn reflected in the absence of his limbs’ freedom, was a defence mechanism against reality’s oppression, an easy but violent escape. Some lost their mind entirely, others merely their wise judgment, and between the two the latter was often worse.

“We were entrusted these pieces of seven for a reason.”

Tsuna’s gaze was familiar, imploring, like the boy he had been under his tuition—entirely sane but for his actions. “Can’t you entrust them to me?”

“The point, Tsuna,” Reborn patiently explained as he would a child, each word heavier than the last, “is never to entrust them all to one person. It is bad enough that the all-powerful rings belong only to two old Families of formidable strength. The scattered pacifiers, if anything, are our last insurance.”

But Tsuna must have been aware of this—they both had lived through the same nightmare, bearing the same cross of their future selves’ death while standing against such power he now tried to wield. But if one death had managed the entire length of difference, then perhaps he truly deserved this conclusion, for failing to train a Vongola heir into anything but a monster.

Then again, they were all monsters in the end.

“Will you tell me where Colonello is? And the Storm Arcobaleno?” Tsuna asked instead, his pleading tone unchanging.

Reborn’s lips flattened, and then quirked upward into a wordless smirk. That he had been stupid enough not to run did not mean that others should suffer his consequences.

Tsuna smiled sadly, but his hands did not shake when he unfastened the yellow pacifier from the chain around Reborn’s neck.

–

 

**the Lady of Shallot**

“Are you sure?”

Uni laughed, the sound clear and silver bright. “When you brought me here to escape Byakuran, I had decided to trust you. Now you’re asking me this?”

Tsuna gave her his sweet, indulgent smile; so very unlike the timid ones she had seen gracing his face numerous times in the first few months of their acquaintance. But Uni had decided that she liked both equally. There was a corner of his heart that did not belong to her, chained to an empty grave just outside their mansion, close but ever beyond her reach. She did not—knew better than to—contest this claim, not against a woman whose pedestal was set in stone by death.

On the next day, she abdicated her leadership of the Giglio Nero, and united the two great Families. The Mare Rings would be safe in her husband's keeping, she knew.

 

–

 

**split the secret up six ways**

“Is this wise, Boss?”

Under the pale lamplight, Romario looked every year of his age, an old man longing for repose but which he would not claim except at his end. This obstinacy did not wear off with the natural colour of his hair—many already yielding to grey—but thickened instead with each line etched into his face. Dino had long since been forced to acknowledge that Romario’s loyalty belonged to him, not the Family. Some days he regretted the fact that his right-hand man never married; other days, this steadfast, dependable presence was the source of his endless gratitude.

“I trust Reborn,” he answered plainly. On his desk were two boxes, opened to boast their identical content. Like sapphires they shone equally bright, shaped exactly the same, and looked all but indistinguishable from one another that he dared entertain a flimsy hope. Colonello had entrusted him with this treasure thrice fought over, Reborn with a succinct but clear instruction to make safe of their last hope, and Dino knew better than to ignore them both.

Still, this gamble was not without risks. Vongola was much too powerful to be made enemy of, more so after Giglio Nero had added to their number and the Tre-ni-sette within their reach. So close to the lion’s mouth, he could only pray that his ‘little brother’ would never notice.

In those moments of indecision, one story stayed with him—the story of a ragtag band of teenagers and their tattered hopes winning against overwhelming odds. He had laughed then, on the tail of Reborn’s tale, and he laughed now to unlimber tension from his stance as he handed the Rain pacifier to Tsuna, wrapped in a credible account of Colonello’s defeat at the end of his whip.

Dino kept each thread of hope behind folded sleeves and pleasant smiles, and played his part.

 

–

 

**leave my bones in the street**

He still sat like a boy trying to pass off as an adult, with shoulders squared and voice deepened. A ludicrous sight, almost pathetic in a chair twice as large.

“I promised you to make Vongola the strongest,” he announced, but the flame in his eyes had given way to hoarfrost of cunning and calculation—as if _Zero Point Breakthrough_ had conquered its master in the end.

Xanxus laughed, and laughed, the sound shaking foundations of ten-year enmity.

 

**_End_ **


End file.
